


Hell-Bent

by UneJolieOrdure



Series: Reader Beware, You're In For a Scare [7]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biting, Blood, Breathplay, Choking, Declarations Of Love, Drug Use, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Fight Sex, Hate Sex, Infidelity, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader out here hoing, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-07 02:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14070699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UneJolieOrdure/pseuds/UneJolieOrdure
Summary: You are never going to forgive yourself for this.





	Hell-Bent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Queenofcarnage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenofcarnage/gifts).



> _Maria (Queenofcarnage) said: Can I request a reader insert where jon and ramsay and the reader all on a date. & she tells jon she loves him and ramsay is angry. so they have angry sex._
> 
> This is my first request fill! I hope I did the prompt justice. Feel free to leave your own requests in the comments.
> 
> Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b-I2s5zRbHg  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0MATKtjyJ50

You’ve always been a little wild, but you’re trying to straighten your life out. Not party so much. Not get fired so often. You’ve even enrolled in a few classes at the community college. That’s where you met Jon, a cute little criminal justice major who make all your exes look like cavemen in comparison. He’s just moody enough to satisfy your penchant for bad boys and just vanilla enough to keep you in line. Instead of going out and getting wrecked on the weekends, you sit on the floor of his dumpy apartment while he quizzes you with homemade flashcards, comically serious about the whole endeavor. You eat popcorn and watch movies. You go bowling. It’s good for you.

You meet him for lunch almost every day in a shitty little 50s-style diner not far from your apartment. The checkered floor is dirty and the tables are always sticky, but you don’t mind things like that. Today, there’s another person at the table—your best friend, Ramsay, who had invited himself along to your lunch date with all of his usual tact. You and he have been tight since childhood; the pair of you grew up in similar nightmares on the same street. He doesn’t like Jon, but he doesn’t like anything or anyone, so it doesn’t bother you much. Jon does his best to play nice, but it’s hard to be nice to Ramsay. You don’t even manage it most of the time.

The three of you pick at the last of your French fries. Jon is talking about his cousins, his de facto siblings, who came up from the suburbs to visit him not long ago. You met them briefly. They were polite, but wary. When you’d had a moment alone, the eldest sister, Sansa, had said something vague about Jon not always having the best taste in girlfriends. You’re determined to be a good girlfriend. You told her so. When he pauses after an anecdote about little Arya's fencing lessons, you reach across the table and wipe some ketchup from the corner of his mouth with your napkin. It's almost a mechanical gesture of affection. You're wondering absent-mindedly how he manages to look so good under fluorescent lighting. 

“I love you.” It just comes out of your mouth. Panic immediately crests. You’re considering taking it back when he smiles, a rarity. 

“I love you too.” Jon reaches for your hand and envelopes it in his much larger one, squeezes it gently. Ramsay, who has been staring out the window in a blatant show of disinterest, rolls his eyes; you kick him in the shin under the table. 

“I gotta get to class,” Jon says, squeezing your hand again. “I’ll see you later, alright?” He looks at Ramsay for the first time. “Make sure she gets home safe.”

“Oh, I will,” he replies sarcastically, standing up. “Come on, Y/N.”

You and Jon say goodbye at the door. As he wraps his arms around you snugly and kisses you, tickling your chin with his beard, you’re struck with a sudden fear. He shouldn’t love you. You’re always one misstep away from a messy relapse. Sansa was right; he has bad taste in girlfriends, terrible instincts about who he should love.

Ramsay is already halfway down the street by the time you catch up. You live in a studio apartment a few blocks away. The two of you walk in silence; you know that something is bothering him, but there’s no use in asking what it is. He’ll give it up sooner or later. You climb the four flights of crumbling stairs strewn with food wrappers and used condoms and enter your apartment. Ramsay tosses his bag down on your futon, still wearing a sour expression. You take the little wooden box you keep your weed in down from a shelf and start to roll a joint. Jon doesn’t smoke. You consider it your last vice, a small vice, unimportant. You light up and take a long hit.

“You love him, huh?” Ramsay says, taking the joint from you and shooting you a sidelong glance. 

“Yeah,” you reply, smiling brightly. “Yeah, I really think so.” Ramsay nods thoughtfully. He stubs the joint out in the ashtray, grabs you by the arms, and slams you up against the wall. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, wriggling fruitlessly in his grasp, breathless with surprise.

“You _love_ that pouty little fucker?” You relax a little, poking your bottom lip out at him mockingly.

“You jealous?”

“Wipe that fucking look off your face.” You laugh, perversely delighted by this display of childlike ownership. He releases one of your arms to wrap his hand around your throat. It’s not an idle threat; he squeezes, painfully compressing your windpipe with his callused palm. You feel your eyes beginning to bulge, your blood freeze, your heart spin wildly. When he finally lets go, you gasp raggedly, your vision a soft white around the edges. You’re sagging against his grip. 

“Fuck you,” you say feebly, slapping his hand away as he reaches for your face. He chuckles. There’s that devilish light in his eyes, the ones that always means he’s going to go something stupid and violent. “Fuck you,” you choke out again, smacking his chest with an open palm. “I fucking mean it. I’ve got something good going, and you don’t get to throw a fucking tantrum and ruin it.”

“I don’t really like the way you’ve been acting around your new boyfriend, Y/N,” he says, sickly sweet, his face inches from yours. “I know you. You’re not the ‘goin’ steady’ type. You like it a little rougher than Romeo, Romeo can give it to you.” You’re overwhelmed with that familiar clammy fear, a sinking, broken feeling that he’s right. You’re not good enough for Jon. You’re trashy. You’re uneducated. You’re a fuck-up. If he really, honestly knew you, he wouldn’t want to be with you. Ramsay knows who you are, and he matches you step for step. You don’t have to pretend with him. This loosens something inside of you. You're seized with a sick desire to prove everyone right.

You shove Ramsay backwards until the back of his knees hit your desk chair. He sits, and you follow, perching astride one of his legs. You grind down on his thigh, your skirt riding up as you thrust your thigh unceremoniously against the growing bulge in his jeans. He sticks his finger in your mouth and slides it along your tongue, hooks it on your cheek and pulls. Saliva leaks from the corner of your mouth. When his finger pops out of your mouth, you grin salaciously. 

“You’re a sick fucking bastard.” He smacks you in the face, hard. Your head whips around. You feel your neck crack. Your teeth slice the inside of your cheek, and you drool blood into Ramsay’s lap. 

“You gonna suck my cock?” he asks, his voice low and ragged. You shake your head coquettishly. This earns you another slap on the same cheek. He shoves you off his lap, onto the floor. He unzips his pants, grabs the back of your head, and shoves you down on his dick. It's bigger than you expected. You do your best not to choke as you take it into the back of your throat. He grabs a handful of your hair near the scalp and uses it to drag you up and down, fucking your face like a toy. Blood and spit mingle to create a pinkish foam. 

He drags you by your hair onto the futon, where he forces you down on all fours. As you kick and struggle, pushes your skirt up and moves your panties aside. He presses his hand to the middle of your back to immobilize you as he fucks you, the sudden feeling of fullness, the tingle of pleasure mingling with the ache of your face and your throat. There's an electrifying tang of rage in the air as you writhe against his hold, every muscle in your body tensed.

“I fucking hate you,” you manage, half moan and half sob. “I fucking _hate_ you.”

Just then, your phone rings. 

“Answer it,” he says, giving your ass a rough smack and pulling out. He grabs the phone from where you set it down on your nightstand and tosses it on the bed in front of you. It’s Jon. 

“Hi, honey,” you say as you sit up, clearing your throat. Your voice is a little scratchy. 

“Hi,” he says. “What’s up?”

“Not much.”

“Is Ramsay there?”

You glance over your shoulder at Ramsay, at the shit-eating grin on his face as he watches you, leaning back against your headboard and idly stroking his dick. “No.”

“Okay. I won’t keep you long. I just feel like…you might think I wasn’t serious earlier. But I was…I am. I love you. I wanted you to know that.”

“I love you too,” you say, swallowing tears. “I gotta go, alright?” You hang up and drop the phone. “Fuck.” You hear Ramsay chuckling behind you. 

“C’mere,” he says, grabbing the back of your shirt and dragging you closer to him. “Romeo never has to know. Let me give you what you want, alright?” You feel devastated, boiling mad and seething with grief, conflicted, and you’re ready to follow his lead. You pluck the joint out of your ashtray and light up again. With the joint stuck in your mouth, you climb on top and set a slow, grinding pace. You motion for Ramsay to open his mouth, and when you exhale, you blow the smoke between his lips. You smile, bitter. He starts to say something, but you shush.

“Don’t talk. I just wanna get high and fuck.” And try to forget that you’re ruining the best thing you’ve ever had in the process. The two of you pass the joint back and forth until it’s dead, fucking as if you actually like each other. It doesn’t last long. When you discard the joint in the ashtray, he reaches up, grabs your nipples through your shirt, and twists, hard. The pain cuts through your haze pleasantly, and you moan, your eyelids fluttering. 

He wraps his hands around your waist, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. You reach down, between your legs, to rub desperately at your clit, edging yourself toward the guiltiest orgasm of your life. 

“You hate me now?” he asks, biting his lip.

“God, yes,” you sigh. “I can’t fucking stand you.” He laughs and flips you over, grabbing your face and holding your jaw roughly as he pins you down, pumping into you. He’s getting into it now. He’s getting sloppy, with his movements and with his words.

“I’d like to fuck you in front of Jon,” he says, squeezing your cheeks even harder. “I’d like him to see me balls deep in his sweet little girlfriend.” You shut your eyes, picture the way Jon buries his face in your neck when he’s making love to you. You pretend as hard as you can that you’re there, in his apartment, that you’re not doing anything wrong, that everything is safe and soft. Ramsay is squeezing your face so hard that you can feel your jaw popping out of place. You can feel yourself climbing to orgasm; the intensity of the pain makes everything fuzzy and hot, like being underneath an animal fur.

Without warning, he lets go of your jaw, leans in, and bites into your neck so hard that you feel blood immediately spring to the surface. He comes inside of you, and with a small noise of pain and pleasure, you follow.

When he rolls off of you, you don’t move. You lay still with your eyes closed, bleeding and sullied and shaky, remembering what it’s like after you and Jon finish. He always asks if it was good for you. You always cuddle up, sometimes fall asleep, skin to humid skin. Why would you give that up? You can hear Ramsay rummaging around in your drawers, probably looking for cigarettes. You squeeze your eyes shut even tighter and tuck yourself into a ball on the futon. What the fuck did you do?


End file.
